


deluge

by zo_ninjarc



Category: True Detective
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Warning for ableist/other iffy language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zo_ninjarc/pseuds/zo_ninjarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Marty, what do I do now?"</p><p>"Well, Rust," he tries again, this time a plan formulating in his head for any response that Rust could have to this, this tangible evidence that they have spent time together, that Rust's rubbed off on him. "You gotta keep pushing the sky away."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gathering

They manage to limp to Marty's car, and Marty struggles to load Rust into it, and he's cursing more than Rust's wincing as he tries to buckle him in, but then gives that up, screw the law, and moves to his own side. He turns the key and glances at Rust, who's staring determinedly ahead.

 

"Look, you're going to stay with me for a few days, because the plan wasn't to break you outta hospital for a week or so, okay?" Was there even a plan? What else could've happened then this with them?

 

Rust nods a little but doesn't answer, just keeps on staring straight through the windshield.

 

Marty drives, and drives like a grandma because he's mindful of every pothole and swerve in the road and the impact on Rust's injuries. Rust, for the most part, doesn't make much sound that belies his pain, but he does hiss and grip his seat and thigh every now and then. He doesn't speak, although Marty tries to make some smalltalk, but Rust seems to have picked up, twenty years too late, that quiet reflection is what car trips are for. If only Marty had known then that the way to make Rustin shut up about his philosophical idiosyncrasies and depressing world views was by carving a knife through his stomach. Go figure.

 

But that's not even a joke he'll ever contemplate again, let alone voice right now.

 

They get to Marty's small house, veranda and all, and stagger Rust out of the car and up the porch steps, all the while with Rust clutching onto his pack of cigarettes with his good hand, and Marty cursing and bitching because he's genuinely scared that this was a terrible idea and that it'll cause more permanent damage to Rust. Rust just clenches his fingers into Marty's shoulder and side until they get to a bed and then with as much care as they can muster, he lays on his back.

 

Marty fusses with pillows and arranging Rust's mostly useless limbs into somewhat comfortable positions on the bed and then leans back and barely makes it to a chair before he collapses into it. He watches Rust's closed eyes and heavy breathing and idly wonders if they're technically fugitives of the law for leaving the hospital without telling anyone.

 

Rust falls asleep or into something vaguely unconscious-state-like, and Marty removes himself to the kitchen, and makes some strong coffee, because fuck it being very late at night, he needs a pick me up. He drinks his steaming hot coffee while staring out of his kitchen window, and considers calling the hospital, just to assure them that their patient didn't disappear or get kidnapped, but just has a stubborn streak the Grand Canyon wide.

 

He doesn't call them, because how's that going to sound anyway.

 

Somewhere during his second cup of coffee, Rust stumbles into the kitchen, hospital gown loosely hanging off his shoulders, legs shaking, eyes wide and mad.

 

"What - the fuck," Marty slams his coffee down and moves to grab Rust because what's the bastard doing getting up and walking by himself? "Couldn't give me a yell or something, Jesus!"

 

Rust shrugs off Marty's hands and gives him a withering stare that probably would have held more malice if he didn't look so damned determined to do something for himself. He manages to limp to a kitchen chair, holding his stomach with his bad arm, and leans heavily on the table as he sits down. All the while, Marty is cursing and has his arms out around Rust, wary of a stumble or warning groan or collapse, and Rust is quiet except for his laboured breathing.

 

"That make you feel better, sunshine?" Marty stares at him incredulously and Rust just stares back at him, and Marty thinks that maybe it was a small validation of sorts, him being able to move by himself. Marty pushes down the protectiveness he feels towards the idiot, and moves away, shaking his head, questioning the situation, questioning Rust's sanity, questioning his own, for fuck's sake.

 

Still spouting, Marty pours Rust a cup of lukewarm coffee and flings it across the table where it bumps against Rust's resting hand and stops. Marty sits across from him and realises that it's pretty dark in the kitchen with only some moonlight pouring through the window. Rust doesn't seem to mind the lack of light, and Marty's not getting up again now, so fuck it.

 

He does reach backwards to grab a pack of cigarettes from the counter behind him, and a pack of matches, and offers them to Rust.

 

"You gave me a pack already, it's in the room."

 

"Eh, can't be bothered moving, and that's not a pack you smoke immediately anyway, you let it savour through the honeymoon." Marty winks and taps out a stick for Rust, who accepts it. Marty strikes a match and leans across the table before Rust can do further damage to himself.

 

There's silence then for a while, curling around them like the smoke from Rust's cigarette. Marty's eyes follow the strands as they disappear into the dusty kitchen, not thinking about anything much as he chews his lip, and inhales the vapours as though he were partaking himself. Is it a sick kind of therapy when it's obtained by watching another person slowly kill themselves? Hell, they're both probably gonna need some type of therapy now that all this shit's sorted. Marty suppresses a snort at the thought of Rust spillin' his guts to some poor, unaware shrink. He'd love to be a fly on the wall for that one.

 

"Marty," Rust's voice is broken, and Marty quickly looks up at him, not so much surprised by Rust's decision to speak, had actually been expecting and hoping for something like a fucking confessional because god knows he's got a lot to say for himself. He's prepared to lipread if needs be - not that he technically can, because Rust's lips are split and swollen and never move much anyway, but he'll try. Rust doesn't clear his throat, but his voice comes out a little smoother next. "Marty, what do I do now?"

 

Hell, there's seven hundred answers to that question, but Rust's stumped Marty, shrivelled his tongue with the slight desperation but otherwise nothingness in his tone. There are seven thousand, million opportunities that Rust can get out of this, that Marty could get out of this, but what's the use in saying that to a man who's sure that the only way he could gain or _regain_ anything is by dying?

 

"Well, Rust," but his reassuring words get stuck in his throat, because they're lies and Marty can't exactly cope by continuously lying to the poor bastard. But Rust's looking at him expectantly, wanting something from him, wanting what - what could he want that Marty could give him when Marty's as lost as he is and needs the help probably just as much? What kind of help or advice could he expect from a monumental fuck up like Martin Hart?

 

"Well, Rust," he tries again, this time a plan formulating in his head for any response that Rust could have to this, this tangible evidence that they have spent time together, that Rust's rubbed off on him. "You gotta keep pushing the sky away."

 

Rust is still staring at him, and Marty cracks a smile, nodding as if to say, see, see what you did, see what you've always done with your pessimistic words and fucking depressing ideas, this is my counter, this is what I can do now, too.

 

Rust shakes his head, but Marty pays him no mind, pleased as punch for the moment to have contributed such an out-there idea into this mix, just keeps smiling and goes back to watching the smoke tendrils curl away.

 

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Rust grumbles and resumes sucking his cigarette. Marty chuckles, and then thinks that maybe giving the guy a taste of his own medicine won't exactly help him. Rust mutters something under his breath that Marty's sure questions whether Marty's having an existential crisis or not.

 

"Alright, look, listen," he preps himself along the way, serious this time, moving his coffee cup in the air as he speaks. "You listening? Okay, here's how it is - you can wallow in your fucking vainglorious self-pity and suicidal wishes and keep draining those fuckin' Lone Stars and sucking the cancer sticks until it's not even conscious suicide anymore. Hell if that's not a good way to go. I'd go that way, had I not the pressures and expectations of fucking society on my shoulders. You don't, you lucky bastard. It's the easy way out like, easy to manage for even a fucked-up cripple like you."

 

Rust's glaring at him as though he's waiting for the second fucking option, as though he's wanting someone to tell him twenty good reasons why he shouldn't be doing just that starting immediately. Marty doesn't have the alternative ready, feels a bit guilty about that, but he plays it out.

 

"Or, you can _not_."

 

"And what the fuck does the 'not' entail?"

 

"Live, man. Breathe, and not just that, that Camel bullshit, but you know, breathe in air and think clearly."

 

"Hate to break it to you man, but thinking clearly under any circumstance is impossible for me."

 

"Yeah, well, you pessimistic bastard, take it up sometimes. Just clear your head and ignore the fuckin' noise and the, like," he twists his hands around in front of him and makes a face, "the hallucinations and the wisps of shit, and shit. Clean yourself up, get back into it, easy."

 

Rust nods as though he's placating an idiot, and looks away, toying with his still full coffee cup. "Damn, you make it sound so easy. Get better, Rust, perk up Rust, do something Rust, so what if this isn't what you want, eh? So fuckin' what if you didn't plan to live past Carcosa - "

 

"Hey now, Rust, I didn't mean - " Rust's hand is clutched in a fist upon the table, and his eyes aren't meeting Marty's, though Marty's trying to convey what the fuck he screwed up in stupid words in one empathetic stare. His words would make everything worse, so he waits silently, and eventually, Rust's hand relaxes and he releases a sigh of something, of resignation or complaisance, and Marty hopes he won't be dragging this shit up again.

 

There's a tightness in Marty's chest nowadays when Rust brings things up, hell, when his own mind brings things up. It blocks his lungs, shuts off his oesophagus, numbs his mouth, stops his tongue, feeds him grief and guilt and agony because he hadn't listened to Rust, to the evidence, to the signs ten years ago, seventeen years ago, all that time lost, all that time lost. It's not a crying kind of tightness, Marty knows the difference, can even spell it out. But it's the guilt, a unique guilt, different to the one Rust definitely experiences, Maggie experiences. Everyone experiences it, but. Marty knows that his is such a combination that it can't possibly be felt by others exactly. Looking at Rust now makes Marty question whether he can take that tightness anymore, expects it to stifle him completely, to cut his lungs off, shrivel his heart and his mind, to stifle him completely from the inside out.

 

"Marty, that's what the booze is for. To clear my head, to stop seeing things. It's not destructive if there's nothing left to destruct but a shell of empty consciousness and being and bullshit. The visions aren't that bad, usually I can just make them out to be something that's _more_ than _this_. This, this catharsis, it's like fucking everything's catatonic. Likely, they're a reason for me to actually be here, to see what people like you don't, the static, mixed messages from the consciousness of the universe, or subconsciousness or whatever."

 

"I'll take that as not an insult, and there you go, man. If the crazy-ass hallucinations aren't bothering you much, then just - hold onto _them_ , if nothing else."

 

Rust taps his cigarette, spreading orange and grey ash through the air and onto the table. "Are you suggesting I become a two-bit psychic, Marty?"

 

"Well, what can I say? You've been to the 'other side' or whatever."

 

Rust, who was quiet and reserved already, sobers more.

 

"I actually...I actually thought I was dead back there, Marty. I had made my peace with it."

 

"I know you did, mate, I thought so too for a minute." Actually it was more than a minute. It was ages before he blacked out in that hole, holding parts of Rustin Cohle in that weren't supposed to be _out_ , and just before he had blacked out, a bit after Rust, Marty had thought that he was gone, too, but hell if he'd made his peace with it. God bless Papania and the unreadable one for actually holding out their end of the bargain in time. But yeah. Marty had thought of Mags and the girls and it literally had felt like his entire life had raced across the backs of his eyelids when he couldn't keep them open anymore. And all the while, there he was, clutching Rust's head, his hair, his stomach, his arm, and that didn't leave him for a second, that sense of responsibility for the guy.

 

Marty thinks now that he always felt a little responsible for, or protective of Rust. Seeing the poor bastard in the bullpen every morning had always been somewhat of a shock for Marty. A punch-in-the-stomach reminder of what he was burdened with every day. This man with the sunken eyes that were sharp and dull at the same time, the hollow cheeks, tight mouth, the weight of a hundred lifetimes on his shoulders. And Marty'd look at Quesada's office, just a sidelong glance, to reassure himself that he could change this, get out of this deal whenever he chose to. But Rust'd most times look up and nod at him and Marty'd keep a sigh within and unsettle his coffee cup and suit jacket on his desk, all the while trying to judge if the bastard was high today or if he was going to be talking garbage again, and he just wouldn't be able to guess what mood Rust Cohle was in on any given day. Kinda what kept it fun, he guessed now, what kept it going, _them_ going for so long, that fucking guessing game, whether they'd fight again today because of stupid, sometimes personal reasons, or make a breakthrough in a case, or not get anywhere on either front.

 

"It was just the, the darkness, the eternal darkness in there," Rust whispers, his gravelly voice picking up in volume as he speaks. "In my head. I didn't even hurt much, it just felt like a series of paper cuts, or pinpricks, but not in the general vicinity of where you're supposed to get them. Sort of numb and split and burning, just everywhere and nowhere at once. It was easy just looking up through that hole, up into the sky, trying to get myself to focus on that because why not, why not look at something like that while you're dying? But, but I realised that I couldn't see any stars. And I thought that that was all there was, just darkness forever, that's how it ends, and that's what I deserved. No bright lights, no angelic hymns fucking pulling you out of your body, nothing like that. And I was, I was just _dumbfounded_ , because that meant that I was right, all along, that I was validated or, or finally defined, finally gone full circle this lifetime."

 

He breathes deeply, clenches his fingers around the cigarette, looks at nothing. "I thought it was _finally_ , finally over, this time around. But then, I remembered you, and I just looked at you, man, couldn't help just looking at you. Thought it was a better deal than staring at eternal fucking blackness, to tell the truth. You holding my head and calling for help, and then I couldn't really think of anything else. It was just so staggering to me for a while there, and still now I guess, now that I can think on it, that you broke through that darkness. Like you were forging some new definitions in the cesspool of meaningless and darkness that my life was, always had been." He swallows and takes a particularly long draw from his cigarette. "It felt like I shouldn't black out or whatever because I'd be betraying you or something equally asinine."

 

Rust's eyes are wet as he says that, not looking straight at Marty, and Marty's fucking sniffling, too. Marty wants - he wants Rust to forget anything he thought about or saw those last moments in Carcosa.

 

"Sorry," Marty gruffs after a while and clears his throat a little, "sorry if I was idiotic out there - was I not supposed to staple your guts back into your body with a fuckin' handkerchief and my fingers? 'Cause, if you want, I can fuckin' rip those stitches out and you can start that process all over again. Jesus, you're messed up." He's not making fun of Rust, not trying to disqualify whatever he felt or thought at that time, because he can imagine what the poor bastard felt in what were most certainly going to be his last human seconds on Earth, hanging on a knife in thin air, if Marty hadn't have gotten to him when he did, or if help hadn't arrived when it did, but the guy's gotta put that behind him, and just - keep going on.

 

"Rust, look man, I knew what your endgame was, okay? I knew it was going to be you and him in there, dying, and I knew that it was because that's what you had wanted. And I ran through that place, with stinking piles of bones and rags and sticks, looking for you. Why? I don't know, because I kept telling myself that if you wanted to die, there was goddamn near nothing I could do to stop that. At least you'd take that fucker with you, you'd never let him get you without gettin' him back. Hey man, if death's what he wants, then why stop him, I kept telling myself. And yet, I was still looking for you everywhere, shouting for you, man, wanting to stop your plan, to change it." He leans forward, makes sure Rust's looking him straight in the eyes. "Because there's more to this world, Rust, then suffering and then ending it. If you'd died on my watch, man, I would never have forgiven you. I never will still."

 

And Rust's just staring at him, weird-like, his eyes hooded, which Marty takes as either a sign that he's going to black out at any moment now, or that he's scrutinising the shit out of Marty.

 

"No offence, dude," he finishes with a shrug.

 

Rust smiles, goddamn genuinely smiles, something that Marty hasn't seen him do maybe ten times in all their years together, and he does it now because the fucker's brain's wired so wrong that even a comment about letting him die a painful death makes him smile, even one as rueful as that. He looks around and flicks the last of the ash from his cigarette onto the table and Marty realises that the butt needs to go somewhere, doesn't know how to feel about this distraction, doesn't know where this was exactly going, maybe a suicide wish proclamation from Rust, a plea for an angel of mercy, something or other that Marty does not want to hear, does not want to deal with, for so many reasons, so he stands and shuffles some things in an overhead cabinet, and then sets an old, blackened metal ashtray in front of Rust.

 

Rust stubs the cigarette out, then runs his fingers across the tabletop, smearing ash in whorls on the wood. Marty guesses that he isn't going to be talking anymore tonight, he's got a look on his face that Marty tells himself means that Rust's processing what Marty just confessed, best case scenario. What's really going on in Rust's head, Marty will never, never know, no matter how morbidly curious he gets sometimes, but he'll flatter himself that he gave new definitions to Rustin Cohle, who had waited seventeen years to die without leaving debts, and now they owe each other everything.

 

Marty suddenly feels so old, so tired, his eyelids heavy as he watches Rust. He wants peace and quiet, a reprieve from the constant guilt just for tonight, at least. Without a word, he takes their cups to the sink, pours Rust's out before soaking both and deciding to leave them until tomorrow.

 

He walks around and grips Rust's shoulder. "We need to sleep, man."

 

Rust doesn't move at once, but stares out through the window some more, and Marty squeezes his shoulder slightly. Rust nods, and when Marty helps him up, he doesn't protest, and they manage to drag him away and towards the bedroom.

 

Marty's got a three bedroom house. One's his, another's a study, and the third was supposed to be there for if the girls ever wanted to visit. He's had the house for four years, and the girls have never visited, so that room's a makeshift gym that Marty promised himself he'd use every day, but only ever does when he really regrets that chocolate muffin he had with lunch.

 

They settle Rust onto the bed and under the covers without pretending that it's impossible to do without hurting him, and Marty peels the hospital gown off from around his body while Rust tries to arrange himself comfortably.

 

"You wearing underwear, big guy? 'Cause I don't want your bare ass on my sheets." Marty mutters as he balls the gown up and throws it on the chair.

 

Rust blinks in irritation and Marty backs off.

 

"Alright, well, sleep if you can. Give me a shout if you need anything."

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"I'll take the La-Z-Boy tonight, he's an old friend."

 

Rust winces and tries to scoot over to the edge of the bed a little more. "There's room here - "

 

"Jesus, Rust, quit moving. I told you, I've got this. Besides, I don't want to kick you and break you even more."

 

"Kick me?"

 

"Yes, well, I kick a bit in my sleep."

 

"Funny, Maggie never mentioned that."

 

Maybe it's too early to mention Maggie between them still. Maybe that's a straw that may have been dealt with through time and alcohol, or maybe it's the one that breaks this old, decrepit camel's back, or maybe they'll never mention Maggie again, or maybe that's an issue that needs to be discussed a little more, a little later on, before they're ready to move on.

 

Whatever it is, maybe it's not worth thinking about right now.

 

Marty nods slightly, juts his jaw out, grinds his teeth a bit. "It's a recent development."

 

"Hmm," Rust sighs, and Marty thinks that maybe Rust'll be able to sleep, now that he's sounding all dreamy like that. "That from Carcosa or the aftermath of babies in microwaves?"

 

Marty shudders in revulsion from the memories that conjures and he curses Rust. "Yes, both, neither, if it makes you feel any better. Sicko. Good night."

 

Rust doesn't answer and Marty doesn't close the bedroom door as he steps out. He shakes his head as he walks to the living room, where he reclines the chair and switches on the TV, because where he was dead tired before, he isn't anymore, thanks to Rustin fuckin' Cohle.

 

He wonders if Rust managed to get some shut eye for a little while, and listens out for any sound or movement from his bedroom, and doesn't register falling asleep, shoes and all, between muted reruns of _Magnum P.I._


	2. Capture

Marty wakes up slowly, dry mouth clacking in the staunch air. His hands tighten on the armchair, and his lungs stutter out, and then he's all awake, eyes blinking, tongue and fingers floundering, alert.

 

He blinks, and yep, there's Rust, standing in front of him some distance, wearing the hospital gown again, and staring at him as though he were the weekly crossword in the paper, and 14 across didn't make any sense at all because he got 8 down, 'What's appropriate bedside manner?', all wrong.

 

Well, neither of them would have gotten that one right, anyway.

 

"Ah, morning there, Rust," then, "What the hell you doing up?"

 

"Needed to piss."

 

"Couldn't give me a yell?"

 

Rust turns slightly and lowers himself tentatively onto the couch. "Don't need you to hold my dick for me, Marty."

 

Marty rolls his eyes, and then scrubs his hands over his face. The room is clotted and humid, and Marty feels that today's going to be a long day. "What do you want for breakfast?"

 

Rust's holding the TV remote and flicking through morning talk shows and advertisements, looking mildly enthralled at what Marty calls morning dribble. "I've been living off green jelly and twenty kinds of pills for the past two weeks, Marty."

 

Marty snorts. "Yeah, that stuff's disgusting. So, want some red jelly?" Rust's eyes unfocus from the TV and he's sort of just staring into mid air, not knowing or bothering to say anything back to Marty. Marty grins and stands and waddles to the kitchen, scratching his dick while at it, and props himself in front of the refrigerator, trying to figure out what Rust's sensitive stomach could take right now.

 

In the end, fuck it, he grabs a handful of eggs, the packet of bacon, and the sad wholemeal bread tucked in the back.

 

The day he was discharged from hospital, _legally_ might he add, all on the papers, Maggie and the girls came again, and drove him home, despite his half-assed assurances that he was fine, that he would be just fine. Macie stayed with him later, when Maggie and Audrey went grocery shopping, and talked about her college course, and how she was going to graduate in a few months, hopefully, and her plans for the future, and her worries and fears about her choices and everything, everything past, in between, and after.

 

It was so nice, so amazing, just talking to his daughter, his little Macie, now a grown woman with aspirations and intentions and determination and fear. The last time he had spoken with her properly had been ten years ago, with her as a fourteen year old, confused in her sister's shadow, shut out and shut down by her family. He'd tried to explain to Mace then, with her not understanding and needing answers, that he still loved Audrey and her so much, that he didn't blame her for anything, that he and Maggie had to split because it was entirely his fault.

 

He hadn't thought she'd understood back then, as young as she was, and he'd thought that he'd fucked her up, too. But he'd convinced himself that she'd be fine, fine with her mom. And she was, she is.

 

He slaps together some scrambled eggs in a pan, followed by the bacon that Audrey had apparently snuck into the shopping trolley, and Maggie had bought without knowing.

 

_"Audrey, stop encouraging him. You need to eat healthier, Marty!"_

 

_"Mom, it's just while he's recovering." Audrey tuts, winking at him. "He needs to build his strength up."_

 

Macie had promised to visit again sometime soon, just that she needed to sort some other stuff out before she could take time off and stay with him for a while. He'd said, yeah, he'd like that, and Audrey had made some similar token comments, but he hazarded a guess that she had too much going on to spend time with her silly old dad, the guy who hadn't been there entirely while she was growing up, and left completely just when she was starting to become aware of everything. He feels that she doesn't hate him, just that she's rebuilt her life without him that he's mostly insignificant to her plans now. He doesn't mind that, he hates himself and his actions and his decisions and always will, but he will never blame his children for moving on without him.

 

Marty had laughed with them, wondered at that change; now when he actually wanted to spend time with his girls, and couldn't. Funny how things change, he thinks and smiles now as the fat sparks off the pan and tries to catch his eyes. He butters toast and pours orange juice, and thinks about calling Rust to the kitchen to eat, because he doesn't want to have to vacuum the front room, but decides against it.

 

He balances a tray filled with eggs, bacon and toast to the living room, where Rust seems to have settled for a show, which he's watching with blank eyes and a half-open mouth.

 

"Here we go, just what the doctor ordered." He puts the tray on the coffee table and picks up the two glasses of juice, giving one to Rust and raising his own in a mock toast. "Well, here's to not having to hold your dick for you in the bathroom."

 

He laughs under Rust's heavy glare, and then sits back on the chair across from him. "C'mon, eat up. I don't usually make breakfast or anything really so don't expect much. The catering service at work takes care of that."

 

Rust looks at the food, and Marty can tell he's going to reject it, say something about not being hungry, and Marty's going to have to force-feed him or guilt him into it, or something, but then Rust scoots forward a little and picks up a fork, pokes at the scrambled eggs which look more white then yellow.

 

He eats and Marty joins him after a few seconds of berating himself for trying to guess anything that Rust wanted to do. It's sometimes impossible to read the guy, and other times he's an open book on nihilism and the depressing meaning of life and other things that Marty doesn't really care about.

 

They eat and Marty makes token, banal comments about the female presenter on the TV, which Rust either ignores or appreciates inwardly.

 

"I've got to call the hospital, figure out your prescriptions and therapy and whatnot."

 

"Typical Tylenol, morphine, codeine, Neurontin cocktail, and a bunch of other behavioural meds which were probably meant to send me to a self-induced grave. As for therapy, digesting eggs like this a couple of times will do the job."

 

"Ha, ha," Marty replies dryly, but squints at him. "Why the Neurontin and stuff?"

 

"Your wife is a nurse."

 

"My _ex_ -wife _was_ a nurse, but that's got nothing to do with it. They think you'll psych out?"

 

Rust stares at him levelly, and Marty actually starts wondering whether Rust needs meds like that to keep in check, or checked in. He hadn't used anything like that in '02, not even before, but it could be a recent addition. Rust shakes his head scornfully, as though he can guess what Marty's thinking. "No. It's procedure after surgery."

 

"Huh, funny. They didn't give me any happy pills."

 

"Flesh wound doesn't count."

 

"Hey! It's more than a flesh wound!" Marty argues as he tugs at his sweat shirt as quickly as he can with only remote usage of his right hand side, but gets it off anyway. "Eleven stitches across, flesh wound my ass."

 

Rust nods at the thick red line below Marty's shoulder, as though impressed. "Could sling a hatchet, our guy could."

 

"Yeah, well, he was pretty handy with a knife, too. Hey, did you actually, you know, feel it, when you were, y'know," he gestures upwards a little, shakes his arms from side to side to represent flying or floating or balancing or some shit. "In the air, you know?"

 

Rust seems to contemplate this, as though he's forgotten it, or maybe never remembered it. "Nah. Well, it hurt like a bitch coming in. Caught me by surprise, I was seeing galaxy spirals and stars on the ceiling."

 

Marty's mouth snaps shut, and he makes a noise as if to ask _what the fuck?_ , but Rust glares at him for interrupting. "He jumped out at me and I managed to miss the hatchet, but that knife went straight in. Like into butter. Winded me, I guess." He gestures to his midriff. "It just felt like pressure when he hurled me upwards. Didn't hurt much at all at that stage, except when I started headbutting him. It was annoying me more, 'cause I kept thinking how big he was instead of putting energy into the headbutts. Didn't look so big in '95."

 

"You're still wound up on that, Rust, Jesus, I was there with you, I would've been able to pick something up, too, if he had been acting weird or conspicuous or whatever."

 

"You, Marty? You couldn't tell your right ball from your left. You gonna put your shirt on anytime soon, cowboy?"

 

"Would you stop making comments about penises, man?" Marty slides his shirt on and takes the remote and manages to find a football game from a few seasons back, and leans on the chair to enjoy it.

 

"Not trying to emasculate you, Marty." Rust drawls, settling back into the couch. He watches the game in silence for a bit, then turns back to Marty. "When're you going back to work?"

 

"Eh, I've got a couple guys covering for me. Nothing major going on nowadays, despite our rise to fame from all that illegal backtracking to find our Yellow guy. I thought I'd take a month off or something. Haven't decided."

 

"He wasn't the Yellow King, you know."

 

"Yes, yes, I know, I read the book, Rust. Acolyte, overly-keen follower, misguided fuck-face, whatever. Media's still calling him the King though."

 

Rust nods, looks away a little, and Marty can tell he's got something else on his mind, and right now it's just a toss up of whether he's going to keep watching the game in blissful ignorance or get Rust to spill. "Alright, what is it?"

 

Rust shakes his head, shrugs. "I'm thinking I should go back to the bar."

 

"Well, sure. We can go get your things in a few days, when you're better," Marty knows exactly what Rust means, means permanently moving back to that decrepit place, but he's not playing around with that.

 

"No, Marty - "

 

"No, _Rust_ , you listen to me. You as a barmaid, doesn't cut it for me. You're not going back there at all, if I can help it, and believe me, I _will_."

 

"What am I supposed to do, then, Marty? The past ten years haven't exactly been an amazing time for me to sort out my retirement fund or anything."

 

"Rust, you're going to stay with me for as long as you need it, for as long as I want you to, and then we'll sort something out. I was gonna have some of the boys get some cash together for an upfront on an apartment, but I'll give that a miss now, seeing as how I can't trust you being alone with your thoughts for a minute, let alone _being_ alone with that big head of yours. So, here's how you can look at it. You willingly stay here with me, rest, recover, whatever you need, and then we'll see about you moving out. And you can't leave me hanging at the firm, man."

 

Rust blinks. "The firm?"

 

"Yeah, my PI business. I need you, man. I need your crazy to work out other people's crazy. Not takin' no for an answer. You're either hired in a lawful, paper-trail, managerial position, or I'm just keepin' you handcuffed to a desk. Maybe I'll even duct tape your mouth shut, to make it easier for me." Marty gives him a glare that challenges him to argue, and then turns back to the game, letting Rust work out his thoughts.

 

"I - I haven't got credentials, experience - "

 

"Experience my ass! You worked out the Tuttle crap without access to databases and by using illegal skills, and probably while high as a kite half the time, and yet you still worked it out. Oh, but, seriously, there's no more taking any illicit drugs from here on in. Clients sometimes make us piss into plastic cups, and if their lawyer teams don't scare you, I will."

 

Rust's quiet after that, and Marty gets up a little while later once the game's finished to clear away the dishes from breakfast. He washes them mechanically, staring through the window again to try and figure out what he is doing, whether this is the best thing for Rust.

 

He always used to figure he didn't owe Rust anything. Not after the Ledoux cleanup in '95, and definitely not after the colossal fuck up of '02. But he knows he did, and does now. He owes the guy something, something he'll probably never be able to identify fully or pay back, but he'll try to make it up by doing at least this, getting the guy's life on track.

 

Marty goes back to the living room and Rust isn't there. Marty absolutely does not panic, but he does quickly race to the bedroom, and nope, Rust's not there either, nor the bathroom, nor the other rooms, not -

 

"Quit banging about, I'm outside," comes Rust's tired voice from the veranda.

 

Marty sucks his teeth and refrains from rolling his eyes at his stupidity, and slowly joins Rust outside. He's leaning on the wooden fence, favouring his left arm, staring out at the quiet street.

 

"Not a bad place, is it?" Marty suggests as he sidles up against Rust's side, just to talk about something, anything.

 

Rust makes a noncommittal noise. "Never pegged you for a bachelor in suburbia."

 

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us." Rust turns his head slowly to look at him, and Marty looks back at him, but they're definitely not going to start talking about why Marty's a bachelor, not now, not ever.

 

"I need to go on a drugs run," he states, in a bit of a daze, and watches as Rust blinks slowly, nods a little, and keeps staring straight at him.

 

Marty thinks that he should know what Rust wants right now, thinks that maybe he knows what he himself wants, but Marty knows for sure that he's a coward, that he couldn't cope with physicalising wayward thoughts.

 

So he pushes himself off the rail and moves back into the house.

 

"I'm gonna take a shower now. You're not taking one until I'm back later." He doesn't look back at Rust, trusts him not to do anything stupid while he's gone.

 

He showers, dries, dresses himself, picks up his car keys and wallet, and finds Rust back in bed, good arm behind his head, one leg propped up, hospital gown barely covering anything.

 

Marty snorts and jingles his car keys to alert Rust that he's going, but Rust's lost, staring at the corner of the ceiling. Marty decides to leave him be, but locks the front door anyway, absolutely doesn't think about taking his kitchen knives with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come. This might be a bit of a dry read, as I'm not skilled in spicing my writing for others, but, well, anyway. 
> 
> Honestly, this was never supposed to be posted in chapters, so the instalments may be clunky or end weirdly or whatever. It's just one, ongoing word vomit on my end, and I try to edit it for others.
> 
> Again, not betad, but should be readable? I hope?
> 
> Thank you.


	3. Deliverance

He stops at the hospital, tells the nurses that Rust is fine, asks for some prescriptions. They give them over without much coaxing, and without any instructions, possibly having had enough of Rust during his weeks there.

 

The local shops aren't too far away, and Marty knows he has to buy a shitload of stuff to deal with Rust.

 

He debates but then calls Maggie from the pharmacy, and she confirms that the medicines that Rust needs are the ones he listed off that morning and the prescriptions Marty has.

 

"That wasn't a good idea, Marty," Maggie sighs when he tells her that Rust wanted to leave the hospital. "He's stitched up and he could develop internal bleeding that he won't feel until it's too late. His sutures need to be looked after and his dressings need to be changed, and he needs the proper dosage of medication, regularity - you couldn't stop him? Or didn't want to?"

 

"Didn't want to. The poor guy doesn't need to be stuck in a hospital staring at blank walls. He's had enough of that forever. So should I just follow the dosage on the packs or what?"

 

Maggie explains what he should give to Rust and how much of it, asks a couple of times whether he's writing this down, because it's important, and Marty pretends he is, but he knows how important this is, and he won't forget anything.

 

"Do you want me to come over and help?"

 

Marty thinks about this for a while. Maggie's silent on the other side, waiting for him to come to the decision himself.

 

"No," he breathes out in the end. "No, we don't need you."

 

He doesn't mean to make it sound like that, so final, so poisonous, but he knows that Maggie can tell that there's no more animosity there. She always knew him, could tell everything about him before he himself knew.

 

She's quiet, but not offended, and they end the call soon after.

 

He orders the medication and, at the pharmacist's hesitation to hand over all of it, he explains the situation, or a slightly civil version of it. She's much more amenable after that, and gives him her own advice, directs him to gauze that she recommends for both the torso and arm, and ointments to help with healing and itching, and suggests that if the drugs become too heavy for Rust, that they should try some herbal teas to clean out his system.

 

Marty pays rapt attention to her, especially about the tea thing, thinking that maybe exchanging booze for tea will be a huge stretch for Rust, but they'll definitely try it.

 

He buys all the things she suggests, and in the end, she tells him that they really should let Rust be re-examined by a doctor, especially to take the stitches out eventually. Marty agrees, but tells her how stubborn his partner is, and that he'll try his best.

 

_Partner_ , he questions himself as he says that. But then, yes, Rust is his partner, in everything.

 

She makes him take a bathroom stool for when Rust wants to shower, and rejects Marty's proposal that he rents it from her, tells him to just bring it back when they don't need it anymore. She instructs him to tape a bag over the wounds to not get anything wet.

 

He thanks her and leaves the store, dumps his purchases into his car.

 

He goes to the sports shop on the same block and buys three different pairs of sweatpants for Rust because there's a sale, and a couple of flannel button ups. Then he loses himself in the grocery store, because he's running out of bread and ideas.

 

When Marty returns home, it's well past noon, and Rust's still in bed, and Marty's quiet, thinks that Rust is definitely sleeping some now.

 

He unloads his purchases and sorts out the drugs so that he knows what he's giving Rust and when. He sets up the stool in the shower, strips the tags off of Rust's new clothes, thinks about whether to have lunch first or have Rust take a shower.

 

He goes back to the bedroom, and shakes Rust's shoulder a little. Rust's eyes snap open, wild for a second, and Marty hushes him, rubs his shoulder.

 

"Let's get you in the shower, hey?"

 

Rust sighs harshly, as though he had been dreading this, but nods a little, and Marty helps him sit up.

 

They hop along to the bathroom, and Marty sets Rust upright, wavering, before he fixes the water temperature.

 

Rust shrugs off the hospital gown and Marty throws it into the hall, making a mental note to put it in the trash or burn it. Rust's in his underwear, holding his taped middle, staring at Marty.

 

"Look, man, I know it's awkward, but you need some help. 'Specially with the rat's nest on your head."

 

Rust blinks, and Marty can't tell what he's thinking, but he grins at him good-naturedly, and Rust nods a little. "Fine."

 

Marty grabs plastic bags and tape and they apply them to Rust's stomach and forearm, and Marty notices Rust's skin break out in goosebumps as he touches his sides, tries to make Rust as comfortable as he can in the circumstances, doesn't touch him as much as he wants to.

 

Rust doesn't let Marty take his underwear off, rather does it awkwardly himself, and covers himself with one hand as Marty guides him into the shower and onto the seat.

 

He sits with his back to Marty and hisses in pain when Marty manages to coerce the rubber band from around Rust's hair. "Jesus Christ, why do you use these? They hurt like hell."

 

Rust hisses. "Marty, do you see me shopping in the girl's aisle at a store?"

 

"No, well, maybe. Butterfly clips and bobby pins would do wonders for your hair, y'know. Or a pair of shears."

 

Marty washes and soaps Rust's hair with the shampoo he picked up from the pharmacy, something in the pinkest, most flowery, most girly bottle he could find, just to get a joke from it.

 

He doesn't joke when the smell of coconut and vanilla takes over his bathroom, and he's almost in a dazed heaven, because damn that smells good, helluva lot better than Marty's usual brick of soap.

 

Rust doesn't comment on the choice, doesn't make any noise really, just sits stock still, clutching his junk though Marty isn't really interested right now and couldn't possibly see it, and he breathes heavily when the water isn't drowning him.

 

Marty passes him a block of soap and while Rust applies it to his front, Marty grabs another one and soaps up his back.

 

"Do you get off on this or something?" Rust rasps, though Marty can't tell if he's exasperated or truly annoyed and offended.

 

"Shut up, I'm just trying to help you. Next time you can do everything yourself you bastard." He isn't serious, he can tell how tired Rust is just trying to sit upright and lather his front. "Can you get your legs or shall I reach around?"

 

Rust hitches, tenses, then sighs and gestures to his stomach.

 

"Exactly, can't bend over. Here - " he leans over Rust's shoulder, then ducks down the side a little more, stretches his arms and soaps up Rust's calves and thighs, and completely ignores how still Rust is, how his breathing has basically stopped, how high Marty's hands get up Rust's legs.

 

He quickly retreats and rinses Rust's body, keeps the spray over his head for a second too long, as a joke, doesn't laugh much when Rust splutters and winces and clutches his stomach tighter.

 

"Sorry, sorry," Marty mumbles and turns off the stream, leans back to sigh in fatigue. "Jesus, but that takes it out of you."

 

Rust's dripping, breathing heavy, his entire body trembling in the sudden cool air.

 

Marty grabs a towel and drapes it around Rust's shoulders, grabs another one and pat-dries Rust's hair himself, despite Rust's protests.

 

He heaves Rust out, and they're both swearing and bitching and Marty props Rust against the sink cabinet to examine his stomach for any sign that they totally overdid it.

 

"You know that the nurses bathed me before, right?" Rust says dryly, looks like he's going to slap the worried look off Marty's face.

 

"Yeah, well, they deal with cripples like you daily, I'm new at this." He frowns, squinting at the padding taped to Rust's abdomen.

 

The bandaging is a little wet, but Marty doesn't think it seeped through, and he needs to change it anyway. He turns his attention to Rust's arm, and Rust sighs in frustration.

 

"Marty, either cover me up or I'll kill you."

 

"What?"

 

"My - " he nods downwards, and Marty thinks he's red in the face, embarrassed, or something, but that could've just been from the exertion in the shower.

 

"Wow, sorry, princess, didn't know your pride was so easily wounded." He balls the towel against Rust's crotch, and just to spite him, pushes it against him, and Rust is winded again, gasping, and Marty's snorting.

 

"Funny," Rust blinks tiredly and holds the towel securely against himself, bidding Marty to hurry up.

 

"Alright, we'll change your bandages in the bedroom. Don't need you slipping about in here."

 

They limp back across to the bedroom, more awkwardly this time, what with Rust's wet limbs, and somehow manage to get Rust settled against the headboard before Marty goes to collect the gauze and creams.

 

He returns and sits in front of Rust, one leg folded underneath him, the other on the floor.

 

"Alright, this is probably gonna hurt some." His fingertips are against the corners of the taped bandage on Rust's stomach and Rust nods a little. "Don't want any Jack or something for this?"

 

Rust shakes his head, eyes closed, makes a gesture that tells Marty to just get on with it. Marty wasn't serious anyway.

 

He carefully strips the pad away, half watching it and half watching Rust's face. At the last tug, Rust winces and then breathes out against the burn.

 

"Yeah, well, the stitches aren't gonna be any better, butterfly."

 

But then Marty's just staring at Rust's stomach, at the wide, jagged, curving hook then drags from just above his navel to his ribs.

 

"Goddamn," he whispers, because the bottom of the scar is wide and puffy, and that continues for an inch or so, as though the knife had been flat inside Rust as it was being dragged upwards, and then decided to turn and slice like barbed wire. Marty guesses that the offshooting scars are there because of Rust's headbutting agitating the knife.

 

How -

 

How that could've missed vital organs -

 

How that hadn't killed Rust, Marty will never, ever know and it won't ever make sense to him.

 

He doesn't register his hand reaching out until his fingers are just beside the top of the scar, and he watches Rust's stomach clench, and then looks up at Rust, who's staring right back at him, eyes so wide, so vulnerable, so open.

 

Marty can't help it, he doesn't know what his doing, goddamn it, doesn't know what he's doing so he can stop himself, can't stop himself, and he's fucking leaning in, why the fuck are you leaning in Marty what the fuck do you want right now -

 

"Goddamn, I'm glad you're alive," Marty breathes as he curves an arm around Rust's shoulders, folds his head in against Rust's neck, hugs Rust, who's stock still, doesn't react in any other way, eyes bugging, confused.

 

Yeah, Marty's a sap, he deserves it after the nightmare month they've had. Nightmare decade for Rust, but details, details.

 

"Marty," Rust mumbles after a few minutes in which Marty doesn't move. "Get off me."

 

"Okay, but seriously, man, I'm glad you're still here." He moves back, grinning widely at Rust's serious face.

 

"We're not having a heart to heart, Marty."

 

"Not even a life-affirming hug?" Marty jokes, picks up the tub of ointment.

 

Rust doesn't respond, doesn't look amused, just slightly affronted and confused.

 

There's no more conversation, because Marty wants to concentrate, Rust doesn't know if he's supposed to say anything anyway.

 

Marty starts to dab at the wound, first with a dry cloth, then with the cream, tentatively tracing stitches and puffy scar tissue, cleaning away orange hospital cream and powders and dried blood and other marks. He makes faces, unconsciously, as he wipes at the scar, mutters hosannas and sweet jesuses and sighs, constantly checks Rust's grave face for discomfort or fear or remembrance.

 

Rust's fine. This, this is easy; the clean up. Going back to the old tree, the spiral stick concoction left seven years later telling him there's more, the green house realisation, the connections, all late, but all made, they're all easy. The clean up, the connecting dots, this is what he lives for. Knows that there is still some way he can tidy the details up, make sense of things to the satisfying extreme, the only satisfaction he can get nowadays. That's what kept him on the Lange case. Goddamn, that prisoner in 2002 teasing him, egging him on, pressing him - he was only feeding the confused, guilty seed within Rust that had told him that something had always been wrong with his treatment of the Lange case. The wrap up, the shoot out, the spurs, the signs.

 

Rust can deal with this easy, can make sense of things fitting into their designated places perfectly, perfectly, jigsaw pieces on top of jigsaw pieces on top of fate, all spinning on the flat circle there. Easy.

 

Marty isn't an easy jigsaw piece though.

 

He doesn't, doesn't quite fit properly, not anywhere, not ever.

 

Not the altruistic, selfless family man, sexless dad, adoring, committed husband. Not the constant cop, bitten through by dead eyes and accusations. Hell, he's not even a friend, believing in you, standing by you for anything, everything.

 

Rust's easy to fit. He's the one that's waiting, waiting for it all to dissolve, for everyone to slowly cotton on that there's something wrong about existence, about this, about everyone, about everything. He's patient, happy to wait. He senses it'll happen soon, tastes the satisfying blue of realisation and acceptance.

 

Marty still fucking smells of hot bread and smoked meat and the fresh, spicy scent of smoke in the dead of winter - the hints that imply that he'll never really step out of being safe. Marty is safe for Marty. Bleeding fucking heart but only enough to make it count, not enough to be invested, not enough to be selfless, enough to make it seem like he can care for other people, not enough to put himself out there.

 

But, shit.

 

"Y'still with me, par'ner?" Marty hushes at that second, when Rust's really inside his mind, giving definitions to things that don't need them and aren't restricted by them.

 

Rust's rarely been wrong, but he doesn't feel chastened for being wrong about Marty. He's satisfied by it, as though, as though that was Marty's puzzle piece, Rust being wrong about him. Him being more then Rust can explain in words, but can feel in sentiments, in gestures, in looks and colours. He's a frustrating case for Rust, a smooth, polished bit that barely fits in with the other jagged pieces of the puzzle. That's okay, that's bloody fine, as long as he fits onto Rust's board.

 

"Still here."

 

"Well, shit, I was sure you'd gone for sure. What even goes on inside your head?"

 

Rust opens his mouth, thinks to spook Marty, to make him roll his eyes, stop him.

 

But then.

 

"Maybe I'll draw it for you sometime."

 

Marty watches him carefully, eyebrows drawn tight, lines pinching his face, and Rust feels the years between them rolling inside him.

 

Marty's jaw clicks, he smacks his lips, sighs a little. "Y'know what? I'd probably wallpaper that mother up on the walls in the living room."

 

Rust leans back against the headboard a little more, smiles lazily. "Good. Maybe cover that godawful mirror. Give me something to watch instead of your testosterone bullshit."

 

"Questioning your own manhood there, I see," Marty looks pointedly at the bunched up towel. "From what I saw, that's not necessary."

 

Rust watches as Marty wags his eyebrows, grins.

 

"Maybe questioning your sexuality is in store, then."

 

Marty snorts deep in his throat, self-deprecating. "Been there, done that."

 

"Really? You still seem pussy-oriented."

 

"Oi, I admitted to questioning it, not fuckin' prancing around for cocks, alright?" There's no malice in his voice, just easiness. Jesus, when the fuck did the get to the comfortable, confiding stage? Seven years being partners and they never got past the _I can smell the pussy on you from Tuesday night, take a fucking shower_ stage. So what's happening here is probably a dream on one of their parts, or about to take a nasty turn that'll leave them not talking for a week, or a decade.

 

But Rust's grinning, too, then nods at Marty. "Who'd want you with that beer gut anyway?"

 

Marty looks down at the stretched shirt around his belly, frowns at Rust. "You don't seem to fuckin' mind, princess."

 

No, no, he doesn't.

 

"I'm stuck with you either way." Rust says quietly, as though this was a realisation that he'd accepted already, some time ago.

 

The gravity in the room changes markedly. Rust's immediately wary, watches Marty's face intently for a sign that he said something wrong, something to change their dynamic completely, something to scare him off. There's no more green-tinted joking, this is metallic seriousness, and it can end in a multitude of ways. Rust doesn't know what he'd prefer - Marty rebuffing him, or accepting him, encouraging, despairing, fuck it, there are too many variables. Rust can't tell if he's angered or upset Marty, and doesn't know how to feel himself about these veiled confessions.

 

Marty tilts his head a little. "Wouldn't have it any other way, I hope." Maybe that's a question. Maybe there's an answer to that that would upset Marty.

 

So, fuck it, Rust doesn't really think.

 

He moves his bad arm out, doesn't watch Marty, watches his own hand move, watches his dry fingers curl around Marty's creamy hand, watches Marty's palm turn, his fingers stretch then entwine with Rust's, until all he sees is brown, pink, white clenched skin that belongs to both of them. He looks up at Marty, who's watching him, not judging, not hesitant, fucking relieved, confident, patient, waiting.

 

Goddamn, but they're bare right now. Bare, and empty. Whatever they ever had, whatever they were ever made of is clenched between their palms, shared, non-existent.

 

"Nah," Rust rasps, goddamn it, when did this become a fucking emotional heart to fucking heart, why the fuck didn't he just fucking end it before it fucking ever began - "Wouldn't have it any other way."

 

"Me neither." Marty replies easily, with a smile, as though this isn't a catastrophic thing that's happening, as though he completely and utterly understands what's happening right now, as though he sees the bright, pink and yellow future, as though it's all fucking rainbows and sunshine and happiness after this.

 

Fuck, if Marty sees all that, if Marty accepts all that, Rust'll fucking take it.

 

"C'mere," Rust says, and it comes like a demand, and Marty's raising his eyebrows a little, challenging him, but Rust stares at him, hounds him, prods him, and Marty smiles again, moves forward, doesn't kiss him, hugs him again instead, and fuck it if that's not better. Marty's chin on Rust's shoulder, ear to cheek, hand in hand, fucking heart to heart.

 

Goddamn this night, but when did Marty get to become the smarter of the two? Rust's sure that the universe has started spinning in the opposite direction, topsy-turvy, wrong, upside down, but it's so, so fucking good, he accepts it and wants to to be like this forever.

 

"This good?" Marty asks quietly, unsure.

 

Rust doesn't speak, can't, but nods tightly, slings his good arm around Marty's shoulders and pulls him closer.

 

"We're gonna end up hurtin' you, you idiot," Marty complains half-heartedly, trying to relax into Rust without touching his middle.

 

Rust doesn't know exactly how he feels about this. There's been no one since Laurie, nobody in Alaska, between alcohol and vapours and motor oil and fish. He knows he'll fuck this up. He's not the type of person who can live comfortably with other people, not without rubbing up against them wrong. But Rust guesses, fucking hopes, that this isn't like the other times, where he pushes people away, keeps them from getting too close to get hurt. He hurt Laurie hard, he knows that, intended it. Hell, dinner one moment, the next, she's packed up, crying, hurting, leaving, but she's strong, he knew that she'd move on, be happy somewhere else, somewhere where they'll offer her everything she needs.

 

He hopes that Marty pushes back as hard as Rust gives, can deal with all of his bullshit, can balance him out, keep him thinking straight, clearly. He doesn't really know what he wants from Marty. Maybe he doesn't want anything, maybe it's just him being there, maybe that's enough. Goddamn, but isn't that everything?

 

Marty pulls away a little later, continues dressing Rust's wound, doesn't acknowledge how Rust's gone very quiet now, how his eyes shine, how his body has sort of closed in on itself, but become so, so open for the first time.

 

Marty finishes soon after, cleans up the mess he made. "Let's get you dressed, huh?"

 

Rust nods slightly, isn't looking forward to this, and Marty can't tell if that's apprehension because Marty's going to be dressing him or something else, but they've really got to get some clothes on him.

 

"Now, where'd you get those from?" Rust asks when Marty pulls out the new pants and shirts he got.

 

"The shop." Marty replies simply. "Thought you didn't want nothing from your other place?"

 

"I don't. But I don't want you buyin' things for me, either."

 

"Call it a loan, then."

 

"I don't wanna call it nothing, I don't want you doing shit like that."

 

"Well, princess, what's your suggestion? I mean, I'm pretty happy with you strutting around my house naked, but I'm not sure what the neighbours'd think." He rolls his eyes and helps the protesting Rust into a shirt. "'Sides, how's about we call it a deposit on your first work cheque."

 

"Still banging on about that, are ya?" Rust gruffs.

 

"Damn straight I am. You owe me man. Do me a favour, lift your butt." He's tugged the pants half onto Rust's legs, and slides the rest up when Rust manages to balance himself. Rust drops the towel to the floor wearily, doesn't protest the lack of underwear.

 

"You sure about it? 'Cause, Marty, if you give me that responsibility - if you give me a real reason to stay, and then take it away from me at the first sign of trouble, I don't know what I'll do."

 

"Shit, Rust, how thick can you be?" Marty shakes his head, sighing. Rust looks confused, and Marty laughs a little. "Dammit, Rust, I just want you to stay. I don't care about the job, I just wanted to give you an excuse not to leave again. I honestly, I don't care what you do, Rust, but I - I don't know what I'd do if you left me again. I know, I know it wasn't exactly your choice back in '02, that everything fucked you - wow, okay, word choice - that, well, that you were forced into making that decision, but I'm trying my best here to not give you any other option but to stay. Here, with me."

 

"What if I can't do it, the, the work?"

 

"Then we'll bloody sell the joint up and go live in the Bahamas or South Africa or Rio de Janeiro, I don't know, man, it doesn't matter, as long as it's warm. As long as you'll have me."

 

Rust quiet for a while, just looking at Marty, who's almost beside himself with anxiety, wondering what else he could do, confess, say, extrapolate, to make Rust stay.

 

"Whitehorse, or Iqaluit," Rust shrugs. "Maybe outer Yellowknife."

 

It takes Marty a moment. " _Canada_?"

 

They've gone from weird ass confessions to retirement planning, and you'll excuse Marty if he's kinda lost for a second there. He's genuinely surprised - has time back in Alaska really changed Rust this much? "You wanna move to _Canada_? What, do you suddenly prefer the cold - what do you mean?"

 

Rust tilts his head a little, Marty watches his wet, tangled hair spill onto his shoulder, watches Rust right himself again, sighing.

 

"The cold doesn't matter, not when you've got something to think on, gnaw on. Or someone, y'know, there with you, messing with your head, but keepin' you whole."

 

"Hm, so you had someone back in Alaska?"

 

"Yeah, Dora Lange, Reggie Ledoux, Tuttle, Ginger, Maggie." Rust looks haunted, wild, desperate for a second there, could probably list more nightmares, and Marty resolves to let Rust's head clear it out before he goes butting in, trying to change him, to comfort him. "Sophia."

 

Marty cuffs the floorboard with his socked feet, doesn't say anything. He's never asked much about her. Knows the basics, can fill in the rest, kinda. Doesn't want to push Rust until he's ready for that, or maybe until Marty's ready to hear and understand the cross, the agony that Rust's lived with for so long.

 

"Doesn't matter where I go, she's there. I got used to that a while ago. She was almost comforting then, didn't hurt as much seeing her, after a while. The others, they were just projections - the aftermath of the seven year shitpile in Louisiana. Used to catch 'em laughing at me from the water while I was working, like sirens outta the sea. Taunting me, as though I had missed just one chapter, page from a book, and completely misunderstood everything, got the wrong idea, lost my way. They were like animated, constant hallucinations, playing out shit, shit that I didn't really wanna remember."

 

He dwindles out, just gazing past Marty's head, blank, thinking. "Wasn't always like that. Nah, there were days there where I wasn't sure if I was alive or dead. Things in the north tend to converge together, the snow, the trees, the people, it's like they're all the one thing, just cold, dead. I didn't feel particularly alive at any point there, so I figured, you catch Tuttle out, Rust, find shit on him and his group, and y'all can get going from this pointless existence. Catch whoever killed Dora Lange, and pack it in, end the fuckin' cycle."

 

Rust's quiet after that, as though he's back in Alaska, piled under the snow in a log cabin, no fire to keep him going, nothing to give him comfort or good enough reasons to keep breathing.

 

"Think about me, much?" Marty doesn't mean to ask it, but does anyway, for the sake of torturing them a little more, to stop the quiet between them.

 

Rust looks at him, and Marty holds his gaze, waiting. Rust looks like he's itching for a cigarette, for a fix, fiddling fingers and anxious, flitting eyes, clenched teeth, grinding, grinding. He blinks slowly, licks his lips, Marty eyes the movement. "All the fucking time."

 

"Oh yeah?" Marty murmurs, and this time, he's leaning in with another purpose, because he was always weak, a sucker for crazy, for wild. "'Bout killin' me, or some'n else?"

 

"Both. Everything - " Rust's breath hitches, his body jerks, when Marty's lips brush his cheek, nuzzle closer to his own mouth, press lightly against the corner, tickles, and Rust instinctively licks his lips, and Marty groans a little, pushes against Rust's bottom lip.

 

He doesn't push any further, because Rust's breathing has picked up a little alarmingly, and Marty can hear his heartbeat from here, too fast, irregular, spiked.

 

"This okay?"

 

Rust shakes his head, stays in the same position as before. "No, it ain't." His voice doesn't hold conviction or vice, so Marty doesn't move away. "What the hell are we doing here, Marty? Playing house? I ain't gonna cook and clean for you - "

 

"Not asking for that, Rust," Marty's shaking his head, still not moving away from Rust because damn if being this close, this intimate with him isn't what Marty's wanted for a long time.

 

"Not gonna be like Maggie - "

 

"Not gonna be like Maggie," Marty stresses a little, kisses the corner of Rust's mouth again.

 

"Or Lisa, or Beth - "

 

"Not Lisa or Beth, definitely not Maggie."

 

"Lemme fuckin' talk," Rust mutters, but moves his head a little to the side, closer to Marty, tries to look him in the eye, touches his lips with his own as he talks. "Ain't gonna be like them, what's it gonna be?"

 

"Like Rust and Marty. Cohle and Hart. Just us."

 

Rust's not convinced. "Ain't what it's supposed to be."

 

"I know, but the flat circle's got a bit wonky this time 'round, don't you think?" Marty smiles a little sardonically. "What's it supposed to be? Huh? Rust and Claire? Jennifer, or Laurie or the dozen other women Maggie and I piled on you? It's not Marty and Maggie, because we fucked up. Me and you, man, from the very start, back in '94."

 

Rust snorts slightly. "Yeah, right, the Taxman and the Charmer."

 

"No one said it was perfect, Rust." Rust leans his forehead against Marty's. "Doesn't have to be." Frames that kinda like a question, like they're really forging some brand new fucking definitions here.

 

"Nuh. Not here, not in Yellowknife, or freakin' Texas, or anywhere. Just us, me and you, man."

 

Rust's eyes burn into his, and Marty's all calm and patient under the weight of all that trust, all this importance that Rust's placed in him, though he's a little petrified, too, but damn if he's not willing to embrace the possibilities. Rust pushes his nose into Marty's cheek, Marty presses his lips tight into Rust's skin, as though it's a promise, searing, bleeding, pact, and Marty twists a hand in Rust's wet hair, doesn't want to ever move, leave, fuck this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I am so sorry for not posting this bit before, and I have no reasons or excuses, but it's here now, so, yeah.
> 
> To tell the truth, this is all there is. After watching the show, I just needed to get some things out of my system, and no matter how many times I've tried to add to this, I just can't. 
> 
> So it is complete, but I might add some random little tidbits in the future. I just don't know.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and don't find it awfully anticlimactic after the horrible wait you've endured.
> 
> Thank you, again.

**Author's Note:**

> I live in Australia, so any 'misspellings' or incongruities are due to this. Let me know if I should tag anything - it should be pretty safe, but I'd rather not throw anyone into the deep end. Thank you.


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